


nineteen stars

by coffeestain



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mute Bucky Barnes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2020-10-03 20:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestain/pseuds/coffeestain
Summary: Bucky Barnes used to be very well-spoken.





	1. don't tell me you're done for

****_Fuck, shit, the pain_ — he tries to scream, tries to lace together any number of expletives, but the sound doesn’t make it past his throat. 

“James,” a voice says, somewhere far away. 

He’s back in that room, back on that table, back under that knife. Strapped down, helplessly, as faceless, nameless figures in blood-splattered lab coats pry him with questions. It’s a warzone, his body and everything around it for miles and miles. 

“James!” 

He’s lost count of the days, weeks, months he could’ve possibly been here; it’s all a blur, a blur of pain and darkness and _ “answer the questions, Sergeant Barnes, and you will be released” _except he knows that’s not true, so he doesn’t speak. 

“James,_ please! _” 

His eyes shoot open, bloodshot, face tear-stained, bedsheets are torn from his quite literal iron grip. He’s- _where_ —?

“James, it’s me. It’s Natasha.” 

He gasps, ragged breaths he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. _ Breathe, focus on your surroundings, _he tells himself; his mantra. Dark. Bed, blankets, sheets. Ripped. Bedside table with the paper and pen, the alarm clock with the red digits illuminating the room. 3:56 am. Window, looking over the street. Rain. His street, his apartment, his room. Natasha is hovering over him, hands placed so gently on his shoulders that he barely registers the touch. 

“With me?” she asks, and he knows that, even without speaking, she will be able to tell if he is lying. Slowly, he sits up, breath still ragged, leaning on the headboard with an ungraceful _ thump. _He reaches over to the bedside table for the notepad and pen, fumbling in his unsteady metal fingertips. He writes with angry scrawls, quick and jagged. With no grace or finesse he rips the paper from the pad, almost tearing straight through, and hands it to Natasha. 

**NIGHTMARE. ** **I’M <strike>OKAY</strike>**

**JUST GIVE ME A MINUTE**

Sighing, Natasha crumples the note and tosses it into the wastebasket beside the bed, already full to the brim with identical notes from identical nights. 

“You’re safe, Bucky,” she says, almost a whisper, because she knows he needs that. “It’s alright.”

He nods once, curtly; and there’s no comfort in it, no softness, just a hard gaze and a set jaw. 

“It’s not your fault,” she continues, and that means a lot of things. 

This is routine now. 

He lets out a quick, sharp breath and his jaw works. She sits with him, in silence. 

“Do you need me to stay?” she asks after what could be hours. He shakes his head and lets himself lower back down under the too-soft sheets and plush comforter with one final long, ragged breath that gradually evens out as he drifts off to sleep, as it does every night.

* * *

The smell of fresh coffee wafting through the air, cuts through Bucky’s dreamless sleep, pulls him out of peaceful contentedness gradually, slowly, until he’s fully aware of his surroundings and the fact that Natasha’s making breakfast in the other room. _ Yes. _

“доброе утро, James,” she says carefully as Bucky plops himself down, rather ungracefully, into a chair at the kitchen table. “Sleep okay?” she asks. 

Bucky doesn’t bring up the nightmares - he never does - so Natasha doesn’t either. This is routine. Quiet, tiptoeing mornings, walking on eggshells around each other, avoiding talk of nightmares, of panic attacks, of bad memories and anxiety until the moment’s passed, the memories fade and Bucky can breathe again; until it’s no longer at the forefront of his mind like something he has to actively deal with. And god knows Natasha has tried to help him deal with it, tried to get him to handle it properly and healthily. For the first few months, when the nightmares would come, she wanted to talk about it, wanted to understand, to help him. She would talk him down, bring him out of the hysteria, the dissociation; even Natasha’s boyfriend Clint Barton would do what he could to comfort him to try and teach him how to communicate with his hands, but when they asked about it, when they advised going to see someone about it, Bucky simply didn’t respond. _ Couldn’t _ respond, not even on paper. How could he? How could he put into words what he felt when his words left him; when his voice got scared away? And even if he could, even if his voice didn’t fail him as it did now, what _ would _ he say? How might he make Natasha understand his nightmares without adding to her own? As much as he wanted - still wants - nothing more than for someone to understand, he couldn’t let himself, couldn’t let his guard down like that. It’d only bring pity and sorrow. That is not what he needs; not what anyone needs. 

Natasha approaches, eggs, turkey bacon and coffee in tow, careful to make more noise than her usual gait so as not to startle Bucky, especially first thing in the morning. He wants to be annoyed at that, at her treating him like spun glass, but he doesn’t want to argue with Natasha for caring about him, and besides, he appreciates it. He accepts the steaming mug and plate gratefully, nodding his appreciation and not even waiting for Natasha to fix her own plate before digging in. Natasha, from her spot at the kitchen counter, grins at him. _ This _ is Bucky. These small moments, little fleeting times when Bucky flashes a grin or makes a joke or gives into old habits that reach far beyond war, far beyond horrifying trauma and torture, _ well _ . She’ll take that over a verbal _ thank you _ any day. 

* * *

The rest of the day, by Bucky’s standards, honestly isn’t bad. He only mopes about for most of the morning before deciding to take a walk to nowhere in particular. Even though she’s been at work for hours now, Natasha’s voice is ringing in his ear, “get some exercise, at least, James, or some fresh air, it will do you good,” and anyway, the weather’s finally getting nice, so he might as well. He tries not to let bother him the fact that even though it’s sunny and warm for mid-April he’s compelled to wear a full jacket and a glove on his left hand; god, he’s started to think of that _ thing _ hanging off of his shoulder as _ his _ arm, _ his _ hand, and he needs to stop that train of thought right in its tracks before it goes somewhere dangerous. He slams the apartment door behind him, he needs _ out _before the silence in there drowns him, he needs to be distracted before his thoughts become far, far too loud. 

He ends up at a cafe, a bookstore, a record shop, and finally the grocery store before he realizes the twilight of late afternoon is descending on the city, and that meant Natasha would start heading home from work soon, which in turn meant that he probably should get going, too. He pays for his food with a curt nod to the cashier, hoping he didn’t come off as too rude this time, and starts back towards his and Nat’s neighborhood. 

She’s already home and in her sweats when he comes in the door. 

“Hey there,” she smiles genuinely, and nods to the paper bag of groceries Bucky is carefully setting down on the counter. “Good day?”

Bucky fishes the notepad and pen of the day from his jacket pocket and scribbles furiously. 

**NOT BAD, ACTUALLY. **

“I’m glad,” Natasha responds. 

Bucky pulls a large package of what must be at least a kilogram of salmon fillets from the grocery bag. **THESE WERE ON SALE ** he writes by way of explanation. **THOUGHT WE COULD BARBEQUE EM FOR DINNER**

“Cool,” Nat says, and they get to work. 

This is how his days go, usually — Natasha works, long, long hours at a government job she can’t tell Bucky much about, and the idea of Bucky holding down a job is almost laughable to him. Who’s going to hire the ex-vet with one arm, no voice and a list of mental health issues down to his knees? Nat always says she knows plenty of people who would, but Bucky somehow doubts the people she works with are exactly _ normal, _ and anyways, he’s almost positive he couldn’t handle a part-time position at the ice cream joint down the street, let alone any kind of job Natasha’s top-secret government cohorts could offer him. So his week looks like this. He walks, exercises, mopes a little, participates in therapy unenthusiastically, goes to doctor’s appointments, sometimes drinks with Natasha and Clint, sometimes shops, but most of the time just _ exists. _Just stays alive. “If you can do that another day,” Natasha sometimes says, “then you’ve won.”

* * *

It’s later in the evening; Clint, Natasha and Bucky sit at the kitchen table absorbed in a game of Killer Bunnies and there’s an episode of _ Black Mirror _ playing on the TV that everyone’s long since stopped paying attention to when Natasha brings it up.

“So this Saturday,” she starts, tentatively, “any plans?” and looks at Bucky expectantly. 

Bucky almost wants to laugh, because _ really. _He gives her a look that says just that. 

“Well,” she clears her throat. “we’re thinking of throwing a little something, just for fun,” 

**A PARTY? **Bucky’s written. It’s just two short words, but Natasha can clearly read the anxiety in Bucky’s scrawled handwriting. 

“At Clint’s place,” Natasha explains. “you’re invited, obviously. It’ll be small, like, twenty people tops. And there’s a friend of mine I really want you to meet.” 

**DO I HAVE TO **Bucky writes, scrunching up his face. 

“Please?” Natasha laughs. ”It won’t be so bad.” 

**FINE. YOU BETTER NOT BE TRYING TO SET ME UP WITH ANYONE**

“Wouldn’t dream of it, James.” 

* * *

As far as parties go, it’s fine. No more than twenty people, as Natasha promised, and enough drinks and food (mostly drinks) to keep Bucky occupied. 

Except —

Natasha’s in the corner with Clint, instead of by Bucky’s side like they promised they would be. They’re talking to a tall blond who Bucky doesn’t recognize, and as soon as Bucky’s eyes meet Natasha’s, she’s waving him over excitedly. There is a hint of... _ something _ in her eyes that makes Bucky feel uneasy. “James, there’s someone you should meet.” 

The stranger turns, and — oh. 

Oh _ no _. 

"Bucky?" 

"Do you know each other?” Natasha asks, looking genuinely curious, lacking her usual knowing smirk. Bucky wants to shake his head, to politely take his leave and go home, go far, far away from here and sleep all this off - except when Natasha’s tall, muscular friend turns to look at her and Bucky catches a glimpse of the flesh-coloured plastic in his ears and _ oh fucking hell, _ because Bucky really _ does _ know this guy. 

Except back then, back when Bucky knew him, when they were practically joined at the hip; closer than brothers, back before his family had to move across the country — back then, Steve Rogers had been a skinny, asthmatic, colourblind and mostly deaf kid who got the cold every second week and pneumonia every third; Steve Rogers who couldn’t hear a damn thing without hearing aids in both ears, Steve Rogers who got into fights with every bully in the neighbourhood, knowing he wouldn’t make it out without a split lip, bloody nose and white knuckles. 

It starts when they’re on the playground, and Steve is the smallest in class, spending recess on the park benches colouring, while Bucky’s the delightful, athletic young one with the charming smile. The bigger kids, they notice Steve, while he’d not even been on Bucky’s radar before — but when one of Steve’s notebooks ends up soggy and ruined in a puddle on afternoon, Bucky runs over, shouting at them to “pick on someone their own size, jerks,” and from then on the two are practically inseparable. Bucky would become the one who helped him out of asthma attacks, the one who would keep an extra inhaler in his back pocket and another in his backpack, the one who would remind Steve not to forget his hearing aids (he never did forget them, but it made Bucky feel better to make sure).

It continues when they’re eight, and Steve is out of school for nearly two weeks and Bucky comes to see him every day, bringing him homework and comic books and just making sure he’s okay, as much for himself as it is for Steve; when they’re ten, and Steve insists he doesn’t have a crush on Maggie from the class next to theirs, and Bucky will always tease him about it, but he can’t explain the feeling in his stomach, like he just took a punch to the gut from the bigger kids for not letting them take Steve’s lunch money; when they’re fifteen and Steve has to move a million miles away and Bucky feels like a part of himself is dying, trying to keep in contact with Steve over miles and time zones and awkward phone calls, but then they both finished high school and then college, then got shipped off overseas to two separate wars, and suddenly keeping in touch with your childhood best friend wasn’t one of Bucky’s top priorities.

But _ this _ Steve Rogers...

This Steve Rogers is huge — built like a damn brick wall and taller, actually _ taller _ than Bucky, and so much stronger than Bucky remembers. His hair is cropped short; spiked, where it used to fall limp over his eyes. But his eyes, god, they’re still so _ blue _ , so clear, and there’s a patch of dried green paint on his earlobe, same as there always was when they were kids when Steve would be too lost in his own world while painting to notice when he scratched his head and got paint all over himself, and _ god _ , it’s all suddenly _ too fucking much _. 

“It’s me,” Steve says, holding out his hand and grinning, and _ oh, yeah, _ that smile _ definitely _ belongs to Steve Rogers alright. “It’s Steve.” Bucky tries to nod, tries to move that heavy metal limb attached to him forward, to take Steve’s hand, but he’s fucking _ trembling _, he can’t move and Steve’s grinning wide like he barely notices. “It’s been so damn long, Buck,” he says. “How’ve you been?”

He looks at Bucky, clearly waiting for an answer that Bucky can’t give, waiting for him to speak, and Bucky opens his mouth, tries to — to _ anything _ , to explain, to apologize , but the sound dies in his throat, and all of a sudden there’s this brief flash of horror on Steve’s face like he’s remembering, remembering what Natasha and Clint must have told him about their mute, traumatized, anxiety-prone ex-vet amputee friend and _ yeah, _ Bucky definitely wants to go home _ right the hell now. _


	2. you can tell me what you were running from

**[new message] 09/03/19 19:03**

**from: nat romanoff**

**to: steve rogers**

coffee place, 5th st. tuesday, 3pm. bring sam. do not be late. 

* * *

Natasha and Clint are waiting at a booth in the coffee shop three days later. Busy for a Tuesday afternoon. Steve and Sam order their coffee; sit down in the empty chairs, and before they can even greet the two of them, Natasha speaks. “I’m going to tell you what happened to him.” She starts, her face unreadable. “I’m going to tell you what happened to him, and it is not going to be pleasant or comfortable whatsoever. If you need me to stop at any point, please say so.” She looks at Steve steadily and continues, “I’m going to tell you because I think you deserve to know, because he has asked me to, and — between you and me? — because I truly believe you can help him. I trust you, Steve, and I honestly think he does, too.” 

Steve nods once, his jaw working, and Natasha takes a breath. 

“I got to know James - Bucky - in high school. We were taking similar classes, so we just sort of bonded. I helped him with his Russian studies, he helped me with my English. We went through all of high school together like that. He was my best friend,” Natasha’s lips quirk upwards, like she’s recounting a fond memory to herself, and Steve smiles like maybe he knows how she feels. “I’d barely started college, but he was already overseas. He’d — I’m sure you know, how fierce he was, how _ tough _, so I guess it didn’t surprise me. I heard from him every few weeks; emails and Skype chats, about what he was up to, about the people he met over there, but slowly, the emails got shorter, less frequent, until all of a sudden they stopped. Nothing. Radio silence for over 6 months. 

“He was an extremely skilled sniper. Was quickly recruited for some operations that he couldn’t really say much about, apparently. I tried to find out more about what was going on but... nothing. If I’d have known, I could’ve...” She stops, takes a moment to compose herself; she can’t allow that particular train of thought to go any further. “He was captured. A covert op; one minute everything was fine and the next... gone.

“The enemy, they wanted more information on Bucky’s team, and, well, now they had Bucky. All they wanted was information, at first but — he’d become quite good friends with the men on his team, and you know how loyal, how _ stupidly _ fucking loyal he can be. So they asked and asked for more information, but he wouldn’t speak. Then they started - they were -” she takes a sip of her tea and a long breath, hands shaking only slightly — “they hurt him, Steve. Cut on him, beat him sometimes, mangled his left arm beyond repair. But he didn't fucking speak. Not a word, the whole time they had him. 

“Someone finally got intel on where they were keeping him, and — well. It took a while, a lot of planning and resources; they finally got him out. But he still didn’t speak. He’s told me — described what it’s like, and I know I will probably never fully understand it, but — he says it’s almost as if every time he wants to speak, he’s back in that room, back in their capture and his throat just — ” _ Just. _ “ — closes up.

“It’s not been easy,” Natasha continues earnestly. “He wakes up from nightmares constantly. He’s had panic attacks sometimes, and his psychiatrists say he won’t be able, won’t be mentally ready to speak for a long, long time.”

The whole time Natasha is speaking, Steve’s expression becomes harder, his jaw set, his gaze determined. Passionate, almost angry. “I want to help,” He says simply, firmly. “He’s my friend. I want to help,”

Sam, who had listened carefully to Bucky’s story and countless others like it, chimes in. “It’s not going to be easy, man. He won’t be healed in a week just because you’re_ there for him _ or whatever. He’s not going to suddenly be better because we _ want _ him to. It’s a process, and not an easy one. Especially after what he’s been through.” 

_ [He is stubborn, too,] _ Clint signs.

“It almost always gets worse before it gets better,” Natasha adds solemnly. 

Steve nods once, firm and determined. “I don’t care what it takes,” he says. “if I can help him, somehow, even in some small way, I’m going to.” 

Natasha smiles, and it’s a sad, melancholic thing. “I can see why he was friends with you,” She says, fondly. 

* * *

**[new message] 09/04/19 21:30**

**from: unknown number (929 0809) **

Hey Buck, it’s Steve. I got your number from Nat. 

**[message sent] 09/04/19 21:39**

**to: (929 0809)**

sorry for freaking out on you at the party the other day

**[new message] 09/04/19 21:40**

**from: unknown number (929 0809) **

Don’t worry about it, it’s my fault. You okay now?

**[message sent] 09/04/19 21:45**

**to: (929 0809)**

yeah, fine. 

**[new message] 09/04/19 21:46**

**from: steve**

It was really cool to see you after so long. Sorry I never, you know. called more or anything

**[message sent] 09/04/19 21:50**

**to: steve**

don’t worry about it steve. its not your fault

**[new message] 09/04/19 21:53**

**from: steve**

Still, though. Wanna get a coffee sometime soon? Catch up a bit?

**[message sent] 09/04/19 21:54**

**to: steve**

yeah, that’d be great

**[new message] 09/04/19 21:55**

**from: steve**

Friday? At the diner we used to go to? Maybe 6ish?

**[message sent] 09/04/19 22:03**

**to: steve**

sure. i’ll be there.

* * *

Steve’s already at the diner when Bucky arrives on Friday. He must’ve been waiting, because he’s slouched in a booth by a window (_ just like we used to get, _ Bucky notes idly) and he perks up as soon as he hears the melodic chimes on the door as it opens open and when he sees Bucky, he grins. Bucky can’t help but smile. _ Actually smile _ . Good _ God. _

"Hey, Bucky!" Steve gets up from the booth to greet him, signing as he speaks. Bucky holds his right hand out cautiously as he approaches, but Steve waves it away. 

"Oh my god, Buck, I'm not going to _ shake your hand, _ come here." Suddenly arms are around him, and Bucky tenses for a brief moment. _ It's just Steve, _ he thinks to himself, trying to relax. Steve, diner. 6:06pm. The smell of milkshakes and french fry oil. Comfort. Tentatively, Bucky hugs back. Tight, trusting. _ Home. _

"How're you doing?" Steve asks as they sit at the booth, still signing. Sheepishly, Bucky pulls out the notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. 

**I'M FINE ** he writes. **COULD BE BETTER. ** He pauses a moment before adding, **SO HOW DO YOU KNOW NATASHA? **

“Through Clint, actually,” Steve says. “We happened to meet at a VA event years ago, and, you know, both being half-deaf, well. We bonded. He’s a good kid.” 

Bucky watches Steve’s hands deftly sign as he speaks, and he frowns. **YOU DON'T HAVE TO DO THAT, BY THE WAY. I DON'T KNOW SIGN LANGUAGE**

Steve pauses briefly; if Bucky didn’t know him so well he would’ve missed it — but laughs it off. "Oh, yeah, sorry. I’ve been hanging out with Clint too much I guess; it's kind of second nature at this point." 

**HE DID TRY TO TEACH ME A FEW THINGS, ** Bucky writes, and does the quick motions for _ hello, please, thank-you _ and _ mute _ with his right hand, **BUT IT’S NOT EASY WITH THE METAL HAND**

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, “I guess it wouldn't be. Find what works, I guess, right?” 

Bucky grins, because yeah, _ exactly _ . **HOW ARE YOU? **he writes, genuinely curious. 

"Good," Steve responds slowly. "Can't complain too much, I guess." He looks like he wants to say something more; Bucky can see the question in his eyes.

**IT'S OKAY. ** he writes after a moment of silence. **YOU CAN ASK. **

"Natasha told me everything," Steve says immediately, like he’s letting out a breath he’d been holding. "I'm so sorry, Bucky, God, I'm..." his voice breaks off. Words fail him. 

**STOP. NOT YOUR FAULT ** he writes. **IT'S OKAY. **

"It's not _ okay, _ Bucky, _ Jesus. _" 

Bucky laughs. No one reacts quite like that. 

"You are... I mean, you're alright now, mostly?" 

**BETTER ** Bucky scribbles on a new page. **GOOD DAYS AND BAD, YOU KNOW. ** He shrugs, in a sort of "Whattaya gonna do?" gesture. Steve nods, understanding, and from there, it’s as easy as it used to be. Despite the barrier of communication, they fall back into the exact same banter as they had so many years before, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s felt this _ at home, _ this _ normal _in years. 

* * *

“You’re_ fucking _ kidding,” Steve says around a mouthful of too-salty fries. “There’s no way.” 

**I’M NOT LYING!!! ** Bucky scribbles furiously. **THE COLONEL WAS PASSED OUT, DEAD DRUNK. WE COULDN’T EVEN MOVE HIM. SO MONTY JUST SNIPPED THE MUSTACHE RIGHT OFF HIS FACE.**

“You’re full of shit, Barnes. Absolute shit.” 

**BELIEVE WHAT YOU WANT ** He writes, sticking his tongue out. **I WAS THERE, PAL. ** Bucky picks up the last bite of his hamburger with his flesh-and-blood hand and pops it in his mouth with a satisfied grin. **ENOUGH ABOUT ME THOUGH ** He scrawls lazily, sipping on what’s left of his milkshake. **TELL ME MORE ABOUT HOW YOU’VE BEEN**

“Been okay,” Steve says carefully. “You know how it is, when you first get back,” Bucky nods, because _ does he ever. _

“I threw myself into my work, thinking it would help, but,” His jaw works, slowly. “I didn’t talk to anyone, shut myself in, barely went outside.” He pauses, looks out the window — recounts those moments, maybe — “Well. You can guess how that turned out.” and Bucky wants to hide his face because he damn sure can, almost too well. He doesn’t write anything, but his eyes say everything for him — _ What did you do? How did you get out? _

“The best solution to a problem is often the most obvious one,” Steve starts with a shrug and a small smile. “I had to stop isolating myself. It seemed so easy to shut the world out but I knew deep down I was doing much more harm than good,” he continues. “And even though I really did want to get better, you know, it’d become second nature to just be alone, even though I knew it wasn’t helping,” 

Bucky’s long since stopped munching on fries, stopped twirling his pen between metal fingertips, because it feels like his own words are coming out of Steve’s mouth. For an instant there’s a part of him that wonders whether Natasha paid Steve to say this — but he’s too earnest, too honest and open for this to be anything but personal experience.

“Natasha helped a lot,” Steve says. “And Sam, a friend of mine. And therapy. Lotta therapy.” There’s a beat of silence before Steve’s face pinks slightly and he continues, “Sorry for getting all heavy on you all of a sudden,” 

Bucky’s eyes widen and he picks up his pen and notepad, scribbling the words out: **DON’T APOLOGIZE, ** and **IT’S REALLY NICE TO TALK TO SOMEONE WHO ** **GETS IT **

Steve smiles — warm, contented, relieved. That’s when the waitress comes over, pen and paper in hand, and says “Can I get you boys anything else?” with a sweet smile. 

“Coffee?” Steve offers. Bucky nods, enthusiastically. He glances at his phone for the first time since he sat down and grins when he realizes he and Steve had been there for hours already, but neither showing any signs of wanting to leave. 

Another hour later, Bucky’s on the way home with a pleasant caffeine buzz and an honest-to-god skip in his step. 

* * *

“So?” Natasha asks, expectantly, perking up from her spot on the couch. She’s perched with a book and what looks like a hot chocolate, but they go forgotten before Bucky even gets his shoes off. He shoots her a look as he shuffles to the kitchen and fixes himself a mug of Natasha’s hot chocolate for his trouble. 

**IT WAS GOOD ** he writes simply after settling down. **HE IS DOING WELL. IT WAS GREAT TO CATCH UP. **

Natasha smiles, and it’s a warm, content thing, not like her usual mischievous grin. 

“What’d you guys talk about?” She asks after a sip. 

**EVERYTHING ** Bucky writes. **OLD MEMORIES, WAR STORIES. ONLY GOT A LITTLE HEAVY**

“That’s really nice,” she says genuinely. “You knew him since you were what — eleven? Twelve?” She tosses the TV remote over to Bucky — “Here, your turn to pick the movie. I’m not leaving it up to Clint like last week.” 

**LONGER **Bucky’s writes after he catches the remote in one hand. 

“Has he changed much, since back then?” 

Bucky pauses, and he’s smiling fondly. **NO ** he writes after a long moment. **NO, NOT TOO MUCH. SURE YOU COME BACK A DIFFERENT, BUT NO. HE’S STILL STEVE. **

Natasha’s eyebrow raises ever-so-slightly, and she smiles as Clint is letting himself in. He stumbles over the couch and settles in with barely a nod towards Bucky or Natasha. [_ We thinking Matt Damon or Tom Cruise tonight? _] He signs. 

“Please _god_ let it be neither,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploaded 16/09/2019 21:20 EST  
Happy autumn! Chapter 2 finally ready. All my love and thanks to Noelle and Jade, your input is invaluable and my writing would never be the same without you.   
I like to stick little references in my fics usually. If you can recognize them, I love you. As usual, say hi to me at pumpkincap.tumblr.com. Much love.


	3. we all feel like we’re breaking sometime (but i won’t give you up tonight)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, am I finally working on this again? Weird. Dedicated to Noelle, who I promised this chapter to last night and who's favourite show is ending tonight so I figure I ought to step it up in the writing department, if only for her. Much thanks to Jade for beta reading and patting me on the back. You're both such dear friends.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Rogers. Can Steve come out to play?” Bucky Barnes stands all of four foot seven on the Rogers’ front porch.   
“Of course, Bucky. I’ll call him down.” It’s one of those rare summer Saturdays that Sarah Rogers has a day off from work, the afternoon sunlight beats down on New York pavements and the clouds roll lazily by.

“Thanks!” Bucky kicks a pebble around the Rogers’ porch to amuse himself while Mrs. Rogers fetches Steve — he was never good at sitting still. 

Bucky can hear Steve bounding down the stairs even from outside. 

“Hiya, Buck!” He says as he slams the front door behind him.

“Hey, Steve. Wanna go out to the park and look for frogs?”

Steve grins, wide enough to show a missing tooth. “Yeah!” He says, and they’re off.

* * *

[ _ So it seems like you made a friend,]  _ is the first thing Clint signs to Bucky when they see each other the next week, and Natasha translates the bits Bucky still has trouble understanding. It’s a weeknight, but Clint has come over for dinner again. Bucky tends to wonder if he even has food at his place. The last time he was over there he saw nothing much in the kitchen but coffee and empty takeout containers. In any case, he dumps an extra serving of pasta noodles into the boiling water for him. 

Cooking, at least, is safe. Peaceful. Home. The kitchen is a sanctuary that smells like simmering garlic. Bucky knows, if nothing else, that if he puts spaghetti into boiling water, after 10 minutes it will come out al dente. He can wrap chopped meat and onions in dough and get a halfways decent kreplach for his trouble. Of all that he lost, of all that they took from him — this is something that they cannot have, that he will not concede. The dough rising, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan, the comfort of cinnamon, of basil and ginger  and chives . So let Clint come, Bucky will make extra meatballs and be all the better for it. 

**AND IT SEEMS LIKE YOU TWO ARE GOSSIPING ABOUT ME ** He scrawls, only half-annoyed. 

Clint waves him off. [ _ Don’t flatter yourself. Steve is my friend too, remember? _ ]

Bucky just makes a face to his pasta sauce. 

[ _ I am so glad I could introduce you two, _ ] Clint signs. 

**CLINT YOU DIDN’T INTRODUCE ANYONE **

[_You are friends with two of my friends, now._] Clint completely ignores what Bucky’s written. [_That makes us double-friends._] He spells out the last bit letter-by-letter, so Bucky can understand, and to allow Natasha the dignity of not having to translate it, Bucky thinks. Either way, he rolls his eyes at it. 

“Speaking of which,” Natasha interrupts, “Sam’s making a big dinner this Saturday and we’re invited. You too, James.” 

**WHO ELSE** Bucky writes, too casually. 

“Steve will be there, if that’s what you’re asking,” Natasha throws an eyebrow up, amused. 

**I DIDN’T MEAN STEVE ** Bucky writes.  **DID I MENTION STEVE?**

[ _ Twice now, _ ] Clint signs with a snicker. Bucky rolls his eyes again. 

“Come on now, boys,” Natasha chides. “Dinner isn’t making itself,” 

**NO, ** Bucky’s written, and he emerges from the kitchen with a steaming dish of pasta and meatballs and garlic bread, even.  **BUCKY’S MAKING IT. **

[ _ Is he ever, _ ] Clint’s words may be silent, but his stomach sure as hell isn’t.

* * *

**[message sent] 29/04/19 20:34**

**to: steve**

hey. what can i bring to dinner on saturday

**[new message] 29/04/19 20:45**

**from: steve**

Sam says “Just your wonderful self.” But between you and me, I think he’d appreciate a dessert. :)

**[message sent] 29/04/19 20:50**

**to: steve**

dessert it is. see you then

* * *

It’s Saturday and Bucky stands behind Natasha and Clint at Sam’s doorstep, a plate full of lemon squares in his trembling hands. Clint’s got one hand behind his back and he’s signing [ _ I-T-S-O-K _ ] over and over  — he wants to roll his eyes, at first, but he feels his stomach drop a bit when  Sam swings the door open, so  _ maybe,  _ he thinks, this is one of those rare times Clint knows what he’s doing.  _ Maybe.  _

“Come in, come in,” Sam says warmly as they all shuffle in and kick their shoes off. “Make yourselves at home. Steve already has,” he gestures to Steve, who’s lounging on the couch in the living room, saluting casually with one hand while holding a beer in the other. Sam waits until Bucky’s set down his lemon squares on the kitchen counter before addressing him casually  — “Hey, I don’t think we’ve officially met yet. I’m Sam,” he says, holding out his right hand, which Bucky shakes tentatively before digging his notepad from his jacket pocket. 

He scrawls  **BUCKY ** and then,  **I MADE LEMON SQUARES ** as he motions to the plate. 

Sam doesn’t blink at the notepad, doesn’t grow impatient when Bucky has to write down what he means to say. He simply picks up the plate gratefully and grins, saying, “Oh yeah, Steve mentioned you might bring a dessert.” He peeks under the layer of tin foil protecting the food. “Thanks, man, they look great. Hey, what do you like with your chili? I made rice, potatoes and garlic bread, but if there’s anything else you want, just let me know.” He winks and retreats to the kitchen, setting the lemon squares down and opening the oven door to check on the meal.

From the kitchen Bucky can smell a feast coming together. The smell of the chili wafts out and his mouth starts to water - there are pots of rice and potatoes sizzling on the stove; garlic bread sits contently on a tray in the toaster oven. Bucky is impressed with the effort Sam’s gone to. Even on the dining table that’s already set immaculately, he can spot 3 different hot sauces and small bowls of shredded cheese and green onions at each place setting for toppings. 

**EVERYTHING LOOKS AMAZING** Bucky writes earnestly to Sam. It really feels like  _ home,  _ the way he’s gone out of his way to make everyone feel accomodated, content,  _ fed.  _

“it’s no big,” Sam grins, scratching at the back of his head and only blushing slightly. “This is the best chili recipe I know, so I hope you guys like it,”

“Only the best for us, right Sam?” Natasha teases, but Bucky suspects there’s actually some truth to it. 

Sam pointedly ignores her, though. “What can I get y’all to drink?” He asks. 

“Wine please, you know the kind I like,” Natasha smiles, and Clint signs for a beer. 

**JUST WATER PLEASE ** Bucky writes. 

“Comin’ up,” Sam says, and with a wink and a grin he’s back in the kitchen. 

“Just water, Buck? No lemonade?” Steve raises an eyebrow and smirks as he takes a swig of beer. Bucky’s eyes widen.

**PLEASE GOD STEVE. NOT THAT STORY** he writes, desperate, but Natasha, Clint, and Sam are all already looking at Steve expectantly. 

“We were, what, 11? Maybe 12 years old?” Steve starts, devious. “We’re hanging out, home alone, at Buck’s place...” (and he launches into one of Bucky’s  _ least  _ favourite stories, wherein there were bottles upon bottles of hard lemonade Bucky’s parents had and were saving for a party, but the boys hadn’t realized they weren’t just regular lemonade until they were both plastered and acting like complete morons). 

**IN MY DEFENSE, ** Bucky writes helplessly,  **YOU DIDN’T STOP ME**

Steve raises his hands in mock defeat. “I take full responsibility, then,” he chuckles. 

Sam returns with the drinks not long after, and Bucky settles into an armchair next to the couch where Steve already sits and sets his notebook contentedly in his lap, perfectly comfortable to watch and listen as the others continue their airy conversation - the atmosphere warm, friendly, light. The setting sun filters through the blinds on the window; the orange light and the smell of dinner warming in the kitchen makes everything feel like a daydream Bucky doesn’t want to be stirred from.

* * *

“Hey there, Mrs. Rogers, can Steve come out to play?” 

“I’m afraid Steve isn’t feeling too well today, dear,” 

“Oh, okay. When d’ya think he’ll be better?”

“Oh, not for a few days, at least, child.”

“Please tell him I came by and that I hope he feels better real soon, okay?” 

“I surely will, Bucky. You know I’m grateful Steve’s got a good friend like you looking out for him. Now run along, I don’t want you catching whatever nasty bug he’s got.” 

“Okay, Mrs. Rogers! See ya around!”

* * *

**[** **new message] 07/05/19 08:57**

**from: steve**

Hey Buck! How ya doing? 

**[new message] 07/05/19 09:21**

**from: steve**

I was wondering if you wanted to see a movie with me tonight if you’re free? No pressure. :)

**[new message] 07/05/19 11:34**

**from: steve**

I’m looking at show times, there’s an action flick at 7 that seems like something you’d like. Let me know, tickets are on me

The texts go unanswered for hours, and even though he’s read them, Bucky will pretend they don’t exist for now, he will pretend the world doesn’t exist right now, because  _ talking,  _ typing out  _ words  _ to another human being just feels like too damn much today, let alone going  _ out  _ into the  _ world  _ and seeing a  _ movie  _ — putting aside that it’s  _ Steve  _ we’re talking about here, Steve who actually seems to put Bucky at  _ ease _ somehow — an impossible feat, lately. Steve, who probably knows Bucky better than anyone, or hell, even better than Bucky knows himself, he’d wager to say. 

Still, it’s all just too much today. Natasha’s gone on work assignment in Tokyo for the next — _ god, three more days, and she took Clint with her  _ — and the silence around the apartment is absolutely  _ deafening;  _ it lets him focus on his own thoughts just a bit too much, and they’re just a bit too loud, today, and he can’t even drown it out with the comforting if invasive bustle of the streets of New York, the lights, the noise, the preachers on the sidewalk with their well-meaning smiles, street meat carts with their dubious-at-best hot dogs, the tourists, the signs, the shops open 24/7/365, it’s all a cacophony today, a discordant, jarring, dissonant thing that he’s sure he couldn’t bear to handle when even the humming of the refrigerator two rooms away puts him on edge.  _ How come even it gets to make a sound?  _

He tries to play some of the colourful, task-based games Natasha had bought him for when he gets into a funk like this, but Katamari Damacy quickly becomes boring (he’s beaten it twice over by now), and Mario Kart isn’t as fun without Natasha or Clint to play with him. He tries reading a book, but he gets pages in before he realizes he hasn’t retained a single word (he couldn’t have even said for sure what the book was even  _ about).  _ He debates, from his spot on the couch, staring at the walls, if he should get up and cooking something, but he’s not even sure what he’s in the mood to eat, or even if he’s in the mood to eat, or whether he would make lunch or dinner, really, because he’s not actually sure what time it is, but then he wonders if it even matters if he was awake at 4am from a nightmare that had him shaking and sweating and sobbing and couldn’t get back to sleep, and then he hates himself for that, and the cycle of panic and fidgeting and feeling like an outsider in his own city, his own apartment, his own damn  _ body _ starts up again.

* * *

“Hiya Mrs. Rogers, I know Steve ain’t feelin’ too good, but my mama made some extra soup and I brought a couple ’a new comics for him while he’s restin’.” 

“Why thank you, little one, you’re too kind. He’s still asleep now, but I’ll be sure to give him these just as soon as he’s up.” 

“Thanks Mrs. Rogers! Oh, my mama told me I should ask if there’s anything else we can do for ya.” 

“Well, wasn’t that nice of her! I think we’ll be alright, dear, Steven really just needs his rest for now. Be sure and thank your ma for us, will you?” 

“Will do! Bye!”

* * *

The only way Bucky can tell it’s late afternoon when there’s a knock at the door is by the warm orange glow filtering in through the windows. He’s been too drowned out by his own thoughts to even check the time on his phone, so he’s not sure how long he’s been sitting on the edge of the bed, legs shaking, staring at the empty wall across the room. Today was a wreck, a waste, there’s no other way to put it, and though he promised Natasha he’d call his therapist if he got too bad while she was gone, well, he didn’t even have it in him to dial the number, and the last part of his brain that seems to be in touch with reality finds the irony only a little funny. Anyway, he’s not sure if there actually was a knock at the door, or if it was just his overly exhausted brain playing tricks on him, so he perks up only a bit, and listens closely.  _ Knock-knock... knockknockknock...  _ Bucky’s heart leaps, as much as it can, he supposes, while he’s in such a state, because this surely is a welcome presence, unless one of those door-to-door charity workers suddenly learned his and Steve’s secret knock from when they were kids and Bucky would tap on Steve’s window so they could talk even though Steve was supposed to be resting (Bucky was pretty sure those secret visits did him some good, even if they weren’t technically allowed). Bucky tries to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes, though unsure if it will make much of a difference at all, and as he begins to gather the strength it will take him to get up and answer the door, he hears Steve’s voice calling to him from outside. 

“Hey, Buck? Are you home? I, uh, well I texted you earlier, and since Nat’s away for work, I got a bit worried when you didn’t respond... You don’t have to let me in, I just wanted to make sure you were alright...” 

When he finally opens the door, Steve meets his eyes, relieved, and decidedly not reacting to Bucky’s tired, bloodshot eyes, hunched shoulders, and lips pulled into a tight, thin line. Instead, he beams, golden and warm, as he always does. And Bucky knows it’s just the sun setting from behind him, but he could swear the light actually shines straight from Steve. 

“Hey Buck! Thought you could use some company.” 

Bucky only nods; he’s not sure where he put his notepad. He opens the door wider, though, and motions inside gratefully, as if to say “Come on in.” 

“Good, because I brought pizza.” Steve sets 2 large pizza boxes down on the kitchen counter. “I hope you don’t mind, but since Nat and Clint are out of town, and Sam’s on a date tonight, well, I was a bit  —”  _ Lonely,  _ he doesn’t say. “—bored.” There’s something unspoken in that, like maybe Steve isn’t all too unfamiliar with the way it must be painfully clear Bucky is feeling right now. 

Bucky nods again, and gestures to the couch in front of the TV where the Mario Kart title screen music has been looping for what must be hours. He finally spots his notepad — shoved between the couch cushions — and digs it out.  **MAKE YOURSELF AT HOME ** he writes finally, and retreats to the kitchen for plates and drinks. 

“Oh hey, Mario Kart,” Steve says idly as he settles in. “Not to brag, but I’m pretty deadly on Sherbet Land,” 

Bucky wonders, as he sits down next to Steve, pizzas in hand, how he can be so cool, so calm, make it look so easy. How do guys like them end up either so well-adjusted or so erratic? He hates Steve for an instant, because it’s really not fair, but the still-warm pizza in his lap makes him come to his senses. 

“You don’t have to talk,” Steve says after a moment of Bucky staring down into his pizza, unmoving. “Or, I mean...” He freezes — “Sorry, I didn’t, y’know...” Bucky can’t watch him fluster for more than a few seconds before cracking a smile. “C’mon, jerk, you know what I meant.” 

Bucky nods, then, earnestly, grateful that Steve never makes it  _ hard,  _ never makes it uncomfortable or forces a conversation on him, makes him feel like he’s in therapy lite. 

“Let’s just play,” he says, and that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploaded 11/05/2020

**Author's Note:**

> Uploaded 31/08/2019 00:31 EST  
So I have been working on this concept for a very, very long time. I'm immensely proud of this first chapter and I'm looking forward to being able to share the rest of it with you. Many thanks, as always, to the ever-patient Noelle. My fics would never be the same without you.  
Say hi to me at catfasteve.tumblr.com


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